


Jigsaw

by quondam



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:25:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9395648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quondam/pseuds/quondam
Summary: Though she knows she shouldn't, Shepard reads the Shadow Broker's dossiers on her crew. What she reads about Garrus' mother forces her to confess her crimes and offer help.





	

Shepard, well, she’d tried everything she could think of to get Garrus to talk. Sure, he could talk for days about their time chasing Saren, all the old jokes they used to have, the friends that used to occupy the original Normandy along with them. He talked flavors of dextro-ration bars with Tali, debated his particular algorithms for giving the Thanix Cannon the biggest punch with EDI, and when it came time to retire at the end of the day he even talked dirty to Shepard in the privacy of her cabin. Some of the things that man said… to use his phrase, Spirits, she wouldn’t ever be able to forget them nor the particular tone he used when trying to make her insides melt.

But when it came down to the one thing Shepard wanted Garrus to actually talk about, he was mum. He played it well too, an expert at changing the subject, diverting their course of conversation away and around from where she tried to steer them, keeping her at a distance in that one part of his life where he otherwise held her so close. She’d pushed him on more than one occasion—he’d stood like a blockade, unmoving and sturdy—because she knew it was for the best, even if maybe he didn’t agree. She’d put it off as long as she reasonably could, but her guilt and fear had finally started to eat at her. There were no other options.

She paced. She paced in her cabin, through the CIC, and outside the Main Battery. With one hand she held a small box to her waist, the other arm swinging in painful circles to rotate in its socket. She was nursing that injury still, shoulder mottled in yellowed bruises, the only physical reminder on her of what happened in the Bahak System. Garrus, for all the affection he’d given to her in the time since her return, still hadn’t forgiven and forgotten the pain and worry it caused him while he’d believed her to have been lost.

So she continued to pace, head down, working through the pain in her arm. A crewman walked through the main room to the kitchen, glancing in her direction as she nervously followed the length of the walkway to the Main Battery, always coming close to the doors but never quite going through. Shepard breathed deep at the distant, foreign presence, and had enough courage to straighten herself like she hadn’t been running scared in the first place, and headed directly for the doorway. Her steps were heavy, leaded with determination.

Garrus was at the main console as always, though his face was buried in a datapad. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. “Little early for your rounds, isn’t it?”

They had a song and dance routine when it came to her nightly visits with the crew. Shepard would ask how the Thanix Cannon was fairing even if their days of chasing Collectors were over; Garrus would spend a minute actually delivering the details a commanding officer would want to hear; and when their mouths and lips were sore from smiling too much, Shepard would slip her body between him and that console and let him press her up against it as she once again learned the taste and slant of his mouth. But it was early for that. She’d taken to visiting him second to last, giving him enough time to casually slip from the Main Battery after she’d gone to talk to Miranda, meeting her upstairs in her cabin without leaving together.

Shepard gave no verbal acknowledgement, instead came to stand beside him, hip to hip. She set the box—more of a small storage crate than anything, with its metal sides and protective rubber coating on the corners to prevent damage at easily punctured places—onto the shelf of the console, and pushed it in front of where he stood. Garrus eyed the gift of dubious origin and nondescript packaging, and put the datapad aside. He tapped the top of the box.

“What is it?”

It took a deep, unsteady breath for her to even begin considering her words.

“A cryo-container.” She paused only long enough for him to look away from the box and then to her, a curious, but confused expression on his face. “With Collector tissue samples.”

“Hmm,” he hummed in contemplation, even scratched at his mandible. “That’s nice, but I wasn’t sure we were at the point in our relationship where we give each other tokens of our kills. I thought that was year ten, at least.”

Shepard wanted to smile at the joke he made, she truly did. The laughter, however, did not come, and she reached into the pocket of her uniform—butchered now with the Cerberus logo stitching not-so-carefully removed thread by thread—to withdraw a credit chit. She laid it on top of the box. “Seventy-seven thousand credits. Certified, cleared, and untraceable. Don’t lose it.”

And that… that was enough to wake Garrus up. His lower jaw departed from the upper, mouth hanging slightly open. He glanced between the credit chit and Shepard. “I… I don’t understand. What’s this for?”

Eyes squinted as the rest of her face winced at his words. He knew, he had to know what it was for, and yet he was going to make her say it. Garrus would deny the help he needed to the very end, so long as it saved face. She didn’t blame him for it, for although the Turian species was about community and helping those that needed it, it was also about keeping up appearances, being as strong as possible. But his denial, his refusal to acknowledge the truth out loud, it left her in the position she’d wanted to avoid.

“For your mother, Garrus,” she couldn’t look away, even as his silent suffering became apparent in his eyes, “it’s to help your mother.”

A second passed and she was sure he would continue the game of denial—there was a flicker of something there—but he suddenly could take no more of returning her gaze, and set his view back on the package she’d brought. He was deafeningly quiet.

In the silence that followed, Garrus traced a gloved talon along the edge of the box. It was like any other container on any ship or in any city, something someone might have kicked along a cargo hold if their arms were too full, treating the contents like they were nothing. They weren’t though, they were rare and precious and invaluable. Invaluable not just because they’d kicked the Collectors asses from here to the edge of the universe, but because just like Shepard, he knew what it would mean. Maybe this more than anything would be the missing piece he needed to help save the woman he loved most in life. His fingers reacted accordingly, gentle and soft, aware of the contents within.

“The credits…” Shepard’s voice was raw, barely keeping herself together. “I know its not enough, but after the repairs the Normandy needed… it was all I had left. It should help.”

There was no nod of his head or grunt of acknowledgement, just the scraping of his talons across the credit chit as he turned it over and over again.

“How… how did you know?” He finally asked.

She swallowed even if her mouth was otherwise dry. In her chest, she felt her heart beating like a drum heading to war, tempo rising. Now or never. “After you and I helped Liara take over the Shadow Broker’s base, she prepared some information for me, things she thought would help. Some investments across the galaxy, classified information on caches of mineral deposits,” she rasped, pausing, “and dossiers. Extranet searches, gossip, correspondence all on the people I’ve crossed paths with, even Anderson, Hackett… the Illusive Man—”

“And your crew,” he said, cutting her off. Where he’d been fragile before, he was now hardened, stiff. Garrus looked away from her offerings, and stared out at the far end of the battery, eyes distant and cold.

It felt a little like a child being scolded by a parent for something she’d done wrong. She deserved it. “Yeah. And my crew.”

There wasn’t anything to be said after that, as far as she was concerned. If she’d irrevocably ruined what was only starting with Garrus, then so be it. For a single chance that her actions could give his mother a chance, it was worth coming clean. Some day, however far down the road, maybe he’d be able to forgive the indiscretion. Shepard pulled away from where they stood, and made move to leave.

Garrus spoke before she reached the door, his back remaining to her. “Did I do something to make you not trust me?”

Oh, she heard the betrayal there. It made her stop in her tracks, nearly tipping forward as her feet hit the brakes before the rest of her body did. Had Garrus ever done something in the time they’d known one another that would have given Shepard the impression that he wasn’t to be trusted?

She thought back to the afternoon she’d spent in the atmosphere of Hagalaz, pouring over documents and gathered information. Some of it had been informative. The rest was downright voyeuristic. It had been at the end of it all, after reading about the Illusive Man’s smoking habits and Miranda’s infertility that she’d stared at his name on the terminal screen. Garrus Vakarian. Shepard had hesitated, not sure if she was willing to cross that boundary, especially not after the things that had recently transpired between them and changed their relationship, but in the end she had succumbed to the temptation and given it a look. She regretted it every second since then. It had not only been wrong to him, but it was a burden she hadn’t been prepared for.

Shepard considered the thought again: had Garrus ever done something to make her believe he wasn’t trustworthy? He hadn’t stood in front of her on Horizon and denounced her. He hadn’t collected her body and given her corpse to the enemy to bring her back from a natural, if early, death. He hadn’t growled at her on Virmire, making her fear for her life over the genophage. Hell, he hadn’t so much as even spent the night in her bed and left without saying goodbye. Of all the people in Shepard’s life, Garrus… he’d done everything right.

Turning back around, she gave the only answer there was. “No.”

He sighed, shoulders slumping even in his armor, his head hanging, fringe pointed on up towards the ceiling.

“I don’t know why I did it. It was there and I just… it was easy. Too easy not to. And it’s been making me sick ever since. I tried to get you to tell me, to get you to talk about her to me, but you rebuffed me at every turn. I mean, I get it. I understand. And that’s why if whatever you and I have had is over because of what I did… then I’ll accept it. I’ve got no one to blame but myself. But I’d rather lose you and know I did what I could for your mother, than to sit by while she suffers, knowing there’s something I could do to help.”

Garrus was still.

“I had Mordin make a few calls, got the medical institute some clearance to help the process along. We’ll be hitting Illium tomorrow for a few days. I want you to get a ride out from there, deliver the samples and credits yourself.”

Shepard didn’t stay any longer this time, and when she made it to the door, Garrus wasn’t there to stop her. Tears welled in her eyes; she didn’t finish her rounds that night.

 

* * *

 

 

Four days later, the Normandy was due to depart from Illium and Garrus still hadn’t returned. She was certain, even as she gave the order for Joker to extend their stay as long as their docking clearance would allow it, that he wouldn’t be returning, and so she sought solace in her quarters.

He hadn’t joined her that night, and when the Normandy had pulled into port, Garrus had been the first off the ship. The Main Battery had been bare after he’d gone, not that he’d ever had much in the way of personal belongings, but he’d accumulated things over the last few months since she’d pulled him, bleeding and half near death, out of Omega. Most of it had been pieces taken from around the ship itself, like a soldering kit he’d borrowed to make repairs, a dish from the mess hall. All of it, though, was gone, not even so much as a pile of dirt or dust remaining in a corner to show that anyone had lived there at all.

There’d been no messages since then, and she’d even had Tali hack into the local transportation databases, but there was no mention of a Garrus Vakarian entering or leaving on any ship manifest. Shepard thought of calling Liara… but she’d stopped at going that far. Wasn’t that what had caused this all to begin with?

Shepard did the only thing she could do. She waited.

The others shopped, made calls while they were temporarily on the grid, restocked with what supplies they’d need. Miranda managed to pull in a few ex-Cerberus contacts that had work for them. It wasn’t saving the universe or human colonies, but it was what they’d been doing in the in between.

Shepard sat at her private terminal in her cabin, re-reading the latest message that had come through for her. As short-term as their plans were, Shepard would be giving Miranda the bad news. The message was from Admiral Hackett.

Behind her, the cabin doors opened, but Shepard was unable to pull her eyes from the screen. Maybe, she thought, it was for the best that her time had run out.

“Busy?” Garrus asked, clearing his throat.

Fingers tapped across the keyboard, and the screen-saver faded on. Shepard spun in her seat to regard him with wide eyes. He was practically a mirage, an oasis in dry heat.

“Not anymore.”

Garrus lingered just inside the doorway, allowing the doors to seal behind him. He was in civilian wear, and though she’d seen it before on a few occasions—even less than she’d seen him with nary a thing on at all—it still felt strange and out of character for him. Garrus was tough and strong, a personality more befitting the armor he usually wore. For extended travel, however, she supposed this was for the best.

When he volunteered no words or sounds, Shepard took the first figurative step. “Did it all work out?”

His head bobbed in ascent. “Went back to Palaven and brought her out to the Salarians myself to make sure there weren’t any problems.” He sighed. “Sorry I took so long. I know you had to wait.”

“You knew I would.”

“I hoped. I didn’t know. Not after how I left things between us.”

There were a million things she wanted to say, wanted to ask him. Did the Salarians indicate there was any real hope? How was his mother really doing? Was there further bad blood between he and his sister when he showed up on Palaven, out of the blue? Had he told his mother about the woman he was seeing—No, she stopped there, not allowing herself to consider it. What they were, she didn’t know anyway, and that was before when things were still peaceable.

While lost somewhere in her thoughts, it was Garrus who yielded.

“Shepard?”

Her gaze was averted, out of focus on the floor. He approached, slow as he kneeled before her, hand cupped to her cheek. It woke Shepard from however far away she’d been.

“Thank you.”

She blinked. “What?”

His thumb grazed over the skin below her eye. “I wanted to say thank you. For your help.”

“Just—” Shepard shook her head, leaning it into her shoulder, opposite and away from his offered touch. “Don’t. I’m glad I did it, but I’m not happy about how it happened.”

“Yeah,” he nodded from where he remained. “But maybe I should’ve told you and asked for help anyway. I would’ve been the idiot who let my mother die because of pride.”

“Hey, don’t—don’t say that.” Shepard mimicked his touch, with not one, but both of her hands to his cheeks and mandibles. She held him steady. “You would’ve come up with something, I know you. I know you better than anyone, Garrus. You would’ve figured it out eventually.”

His hand abandoned her cheek to fold over and into one of hers. He repeated his words from earlier, and though he couldn’t cry, Shepard was sure the coating of tears over his eyes was a little thicker than usual. “Thank you.”

There was no staying in her seat after that, and Shepard simply slipped from the chair down into his arms, seating herself across his lap. It was uncomfortable and she felt the effects of gravity pulling her from him, but they both eagerly gripped and held themselves to one another. Shepard buried her face in the hollow between his neck and cowl, pressing her forehead up into the soft and flexible hide found there. Garrus returned the gesture, his face in her hair.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” she added in a moment of quiet confession.

His arms squeezed her tighter, holding Shepard closer. “I’ll always come back.”

Whether it was a second or a minute later, neither had any clue, but their mouths found one another’s just as their hands began the fight in earnest. Garrus pulled at her shirt, wresting the cloth from around her, and Shepard fell behind in pace, struggling with the unfamiliarity of his tunic. He tipped his body forward and laid Shepard out on the floor in front of him, and without another word, the two of them finished undressing and said their apologies.

A week later, it didn’t matter that the Normandy’s finances were drained. The ship sat in an Alliance dock in Vancouver and Shepard in her cell.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Another old one that I had always intended on making part of a longer story, but I now think stands best on its own.


End file.
